


Forget Me Not

by AteYellowPaint



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Existentialism, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied Suicide Ideation (briefly), Introspection, John-centric, Platonic Soul Groups, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:29:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint
Summary: “I think it’s bullshit, though.” Roger’s voice was more delicate, more cautious than normal and John knew what was coming.“What is?” John asked anyway.“We’re literally famous rock stars,” Roger whined, gesturing around the empty rooftop, “worked our arses off to get here, and we won’t remember any of it.”And we won’t remember any of us, either, went unspoken, but not unheard.-In a universe where soulmates are destined to meet across every lifetime, death is not life’s greatest tragedy.
Relationships: John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 20
Kudos: 17
Collections: Meant To Be: The Soulmate Challenge





	Forget Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone and happy Valentine's Day. This work is created for the Clog Factory Soulmate Challenge. I must admit, it's not the most ~festive~ work for a romantic holiday, but I hope you enjoy it anyway <3
> 
> This piece was beta read by the wonderful TheAdorableTia! PhoenixQueen07 has been working on some art and it will be linked here as soon as it is available!

The other three had pieces of the mark revealed to them as they met each other one by one.

John was the lucky one who got to endure the pain of getting his all at once.

Still, he used to marvel at its intricacies in the early days. Sometimes he would sit in front of his mirror, sweeping his hair over one shoulder and straining his neck just to trace over the feathers of the phoenix, the tails of the lions, the wings of the maidens. Never had he seen a soulmark quite like it; but then again, never had he met someone in a soul group before.

Sometime in the last thirty years, it had become a mar on his back. He could hardly stand to look at it, yet he couldn’t stop. It was a sick game he played with himself. Each day he studied the twin maidens, watched as they faded to nothing more than scar tissue; he could hardly make out the details in them anymore. The rest of his mark was as new as the day it branded his skin, mocking Freddie, mocking him.

***

John shifted the guitar case slung over his back and adjusted his grip on his amp. His shoulder ached after the walk from the tube to the unfamiliar campus and then another long walk when he got lost trying to find the Science building. Why a band audition was being held in the Science building was anyone’s guess.

He walked down the green linoleum-tiled hall, eyes flicking back and forth between the crumpled paper in his hand and the numbers on the doors - 355, 357, 359… 361. John stopped in front of the door. It was cracked open and he could hear voices drifting from inside the lecture room, so he reached out and gave a hesitant knock.

“Come in!” someone called. It was the raspy voice John recognized from over the phone - Roger, he said his name was - so John pushed the door open and walked into the classroom.

When he walked in, he saw three blokes lounging in the student desks. The blonde one was slouched down, one of his legs slung over the table. The raven-haired man sat with his chin in his hand. Then there was the curly-haired bloke who sat sideways because his legs were too long to fit properly.

All three of them looked at John expectantly.

“Hi, I’m--”

John choked on his words, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat as a deadly burn seared across his back. It spread down his arms to his fingertips and he dropped his amp on the ground, collapsing to his knees when the burn choked out his heart and spread fire through his chest.

He was still coughing and gasping for air, the blur barely fading from his eyes when he scrambled to his amp to make sure it wasn’t broken - something the others would never let him live down.

His mind was still hazy when he felt someone gently tug at his guitar strap. He dutifully lifted his arms and the weight disappeared off his back. He raised his eyes to see the curly-haired guy holding onto his case, looking at him with a nervous smile.

John trailed his eyes across the room and found that the blonde had taken off his shirt, wincing as the third bloke trailed his fingers over a rather large soulmark, and-- _oh_.

“I thought it looked a bit uneven,” John heard the bloke mutter to himself.

John couldn’t help but stare dumbly as the bloke wheeled around from the blonde and turned to face him.

“Well,” he said, with a glint in his eye, “it looks like we finally found our bassist.”

John gaped for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He always imagined this moment would be different somehow, more eventful - like stars aligning as all the storybooks used to tell him. But now that he was here, it felt… ordinary. Beautifully, perfectly ordinary - if not for the dull burn still buzzing on his back.

John cracked a smile. “You don’t know that. What if I’m shit?”

“Are you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No,” John said, a laugh escaping his lips. “But you don’t know that.”

***

John snatched his hand from the scar tissue and turned away from the dresser mirror. He shook out the jumper he was in the process of putting on when he got distracted and quickly pulled it over his head. He walked out of his bedroom and closed the door, making a point not to look at his clothed back.

He padded through the quiet house - enjoying a rare day of peace in the typically bustling home - down his staircase full of family photos, through his living room full of well-loved books, into his office full of haunted memories. It seemed he was in the mood to torture himself.

John swept his eyes over the small and unassuming room. Well, unassuming if not for all of the records and awards littering every wall, shelf, and surface. His eyes landed on his sunburst Precision standing in the corner next to his desk.

He walked over to the bass - the only one that remained of his entire collection - and ran his finger over the top of the body. 

He needed to dust it soon. 

John thumbed at the fret and plucked the E string. It came out muted and out of tune. Brian would have had something to say about that.

But then again, Brain had something to say about everything.

John knew he had no room to talk, though. He was just as stubborn and hard headed. It was difficult at times, facing opposition from one of the people he loved most in his life, but somehow they both ended up better for it. They challenged each other - fought, yes - but after they got past the pettiness and hurt feelings, they helped build each other back up.

Brian broke past his defenses. John liked to think he did the same.

***

“Do you ever wonder what we did in our past lives?” John closed his fist around the fretboard of his bass as he asked the sudden question.

Brian looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in with a confused expression on his face.

“Once or twice maybe,” Brian said carefully. “Why?”

The honest answer was that it was late and cold in the barn-turned-studio and John was tired of working out the non-existent kinks in his bassline for Brian’s prophecy song and he was hoping to distract Brian with his favorite past-time - contemplative existentialism.

John wasn’t going to say any of that, though.

John shrugged. “Do you ever think if we were something cool?”

“Statistically, we were most likely peasants or soldiers or hunter-gatherers,” Brian said as he went back to writing in his notebook.

“That’s no fun,” John said, unplugging his bass to move across the empty studio and sit on the couch next to Brian. He continued to pluck out a random melody, the notes coming out muffled without the amp. “We very well could have been royalty. Or even pirates.”

“Pirates aren’t real, Deaks,” Brian said with a laugh, his curls falling forward in front of his face, obstructing his amused smile from John.

John stopped his fingerpicking and looked at Brian in disbelief. Of all the things he expected to come out of Brian’s mouth, that certainly wasn’t it.

“Did- are you daft?” John laughed. “Pirates are most certainly real.”

Brian finally looked up, the exhaustion of their long night evident on his face.

“Even still, we probably weren’t ever pirates,” Brian sighed.

John paused for a minute, running his thumb up and down his E string as he watched Brian carefully. 

“You really don’t care what we did before all this?” John asked, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at how hurt and childish he sounded.

John felt his cheeks grow red when the expression on Brian’s face clearly softened. He felt caught out, like he’d given too much of himself away.

“Not really. I think what we’re doing right here is rather incredible,” Brian said softly. “Our past lives don’t really matter to us now, do they?”

John dropped his eyes back down onto his bass. He leaned against the arm rest and brought his legs up, burrowing himself deeper into the worn couch.

“I think they matter,” John mumbled. He started playing Brian’s prophecy song again before Brian could get in another word.

***

A yellow envelope resting on top of his account books caught John’s eye. It was Roger’s birthday card to John. He had tucked it away in a drawer without opening it when it showed up at his door a few months ago. And there it was on top of his desk.

Ronnie’s hints never were subtle.

John sat at his desk and turned the envelope over in his hands.

Roger taught him what it meant to love someone unconditionally. They were total opposites. On anyone else, John wouldn’t have been able to stand Roger’s temper and loud personality.

But Roger was also fiercely loyal, intelligent, and kind and John couldn’t help but let him in. They balanced each other out. John was the calm, quiet confidence to Roger’s vibrant and playful presence.

John sighed as he ran his thumb over Roger’s return address. The yellow envelope seemed too cheerful. John grabbed his letter opener and sliced through the top. He pulled out the card. The front had a picture of a teddy bear floating through the sky with a bouquet of balloons. Roger used to give him joke cards.

John opened the card. Below the generic well wishes printed in cursive, there was a simple message:

_Happy birthday, Deaks._

_Miss you always._

_-Rog_

Bad temper. Loud.

Loyal.

Kind.

***

The photographers had finally given them a moment’s peace. John got up from his chair and walked to the edge of the rooftop, leaning his elbows against the barrier and squinting against the sunlight streaming over the Japanese skyline. It wasn’t their first time in the country and John hoped it wouldn’t be their last. A part of him always wondered if their previous life had been in Japan; maybe that was why they all had such a strong connection with the land.

“So do you think this is our last go-around?” John asked, breaking the soft quiet.

“No, they’ll be back with more photographers soon,” he heard Roger say behind him.

“Piss off, you know what I mean.”

John turned around and smiled at Roger. The golden evening sunlight cast them in a warm glow and brightened Roger’s laugh tenfold.

“You know it’s not,” Roger said. “We’re all too big of cunts to be considered ‘enlightened’.”

“You, especially,” John said as he walked over to Roger, dodging a swat to the leg by standing behind Roger’s chair.

He leaned against the back of the chair while Roger dug in his jean pocket and got himself a smoke. Roger rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his hand around the flame. The signature acrid scent wafted around them and soon Roger spoke up again.

“I think it’s bullshit, though.” Roger’s voice was more delicate, more cautious than normal and John knew what was coming. 

“What is?” John asked anyway.

“We’re literally famous rock stars,” Roger whined, gesturing around the empty rooftop, “worked our arses off to get here, and we won’t remember any of it.”

 _And we won’t remember any of us, either_ , went unspoken, but not unheard.

Still, John knew that neither of them wanted to entertain that thought. Which was why he said, “I don’t think your head could handle getting any bigger if you did remember.”

Roger snorted a laugh and John wasn’t quick enough to dodge the smack on his arm. 

“I guess it’s a good thing we put our mark right on our bloody albums,” Roger said, leaning his head back against John’s stomach. “We’ll have to be knobheads not to figure it out when we see it in our next life.”

“That’s not for us to worry about right now, though,” John said softly, though he knew neither of them would heed the advice.

“I know.”

John ran his fingers through Roger’s hair, letting his hand come to rest on his shoulder for a moment before dropping it back down by his side.

He wished he could stay there forever: no interviews, no press tours, no future; just the rooftop and the sunset and his soulmate. But time had other plans, and soon they were whisked away to their next interview and the moment died on the rooftop where it lay. John didn’t let himself think about the day the memory would die as well.

***

John threw the card back into his desk drawer. He gently closed it and shuffled through the mess on his desk. He’d organize it one day.

He lifted a pile of papers to find an ornate silver frame lying face down on the desk. He set the papers aside and traced a smile into black velvet backing of the frame. He hesitated before popping out the stand and setting the frame upright. 

He chuckled when he was greeted with their biggest mistake of the seventies - the four of them posing nude for Mick Rock like they were coy covergirls for a naughty magazine. Freddie had given them all framed copies back in the 80s to _“knock us down a peg when we get too serious.”_

Freddie. Freddie who had guided and protected John right from the start. Freddie who had helped John find confidence in his songwriting. Freddie who was always there when John needed him. Freddie who only wanted to shield him from the bad, right until the very end.

For the life of him, John couldn’t say what he ever gave in return. Brain was his counterpart - the white queen to Freddie’s black. Roger was his closest friend and confidant.

John was his burden.

***

“Stop crying.” Freddie’s voice was sharp, like he was reprimanding a child, and that was what finally pushed John over the edge.

“I’ll do as I damn well please, Fred!” John pushed himself out of the couch and away from Freddie.

“You’re dying,” John spat out. “I am allowed to be fucking sad over my best friend dying.”

John pressed the knuckles of his fists against the large windowsill. It was a beautiful summer’s day outside: comfortably warm, the garden was in full bloom bursting in pinks and greens and yellows and blues, and for once, there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

It was too cheerful, too bright, too… happy.

John dropped his forehead against the windowpane and wiped the dampness from his cheeks.

“Fuck,” John whispered, his breath fogging up the glass. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Darling.”

Freddie’s voice had lost its edge. John stayed where he was, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine warming his face.

“John, come here.”

John opened his eyes and saw Romeo sunning himself in the grass. He took a deep breath and pushed away from the window. He kept his eyes on the crystal ashtray on the coffee table as he sat down.

“Look at me,” Freddie said gently, taking John’s face between his hands. He didn’t force John to turn his head, but the gentle brush of his thumbs against his cheeks coaxed John to finally meet his gaze.

“Don’t be sad,” Freddie said, his voice soft like when he used to read to Robert on tour. “Please, _please_ don’t be sad over me. You know we’ll see each other again. We’re literally fated.”

“But we won’t remember,” John whispered desperately, wrapping his hands around Freddie’s wrists.

“We’ll remember.”

“No we fucking won’t,” John hissed.

“Our souls will know,” Freddie said, a small smile on his lips. “We will always know.”

“Oh, don’t you give me that hippie-love bullshit.” John tried to rip his face away from Freddie’s hands, but Freddie knew him too well and gently moved his hands to his shoulders.

“Darling, don’t fret over things you can’t change,” Freddie said.

John could feel the tears well up in his eyes again. He tried to blink them back, but it was no use. His voice cracked when he said, “You just weren’t supposed to leave me so soon.”

Freddie didn’t say anything; he simply wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and pulled him in tight. John buried his face in the crook of Freddie’s neck.

“Freddie, I can’t watch you d--” John gasped into the soft cotton of Freddie’s t-shirt. “I can’t do it, I can’t- my dad- I can’t do it again.”

“Hush. Hush, don’t cry,” Freddie said. “Please, don’t cry, Deaky.”

Freddie ran his fingers through John’s thinning hair - much like he used to do when John’s hair was much longer - and all at once John was eleven years old again in that wretched hospital room, crying in his mother’s arms while she shielded his face from his father’s hospital bed. With every one of Freddie’s broken pleas to stop crying, fresh tears rolled down John’s face. He had never felt so pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered into the wet fabric.

***

John put the photo in the drawer as well. He left his office and then his house and then his neighborhood, driving down into Chelsea. He didn’t stop moving until he was sitting on his bench in the park near his old college. 

The cold November air nipped at his cheeks. The wind rippled the surface of the pond, the sparkling evening sun dancing across the waves. He could breathe a little easier, but his haunted hall of memories still beckoned to him, enticing him to open door after door after door. He knew what lay behind them, yet he could never resist.

Running away from his problems used to be a lot easier when his problems weren’t his own thoughts, twisting and swirling around, taking over his every essence in a macabre display of irony.

John was startled out of his prison when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He ripped his eyes away from the pond and looked to his left. The first thing he noticed was a mop of white poodle hair. The second thing he noticed was an old, familiar face.

“Brian?” John blinked at the apparition beside him.

“I thought it was you.” A smile stretched across Brian’s face.

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

It was the only question John could form.

“I pass through here sometimes; see if I might not spot you.” Brian dropped his hand and looked out over the pond in the diminishing light. “This is the first time it actually worked.”

Something inside of John’s chest wretched at the tone of Brian’s voice: wistful and melancholy with a bitterness cutting underneath. 

“H-how did you know I--”

“You’re a creature of habit, John,” Brian said, inviting himself to the spot next to John. “You’ve been coming to this bench to have a think for as long as I’ve known you.”

John didn’t quite know what to make of that. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and crossed one leg over the other. He circled his thumb over the burn mark in the wooden slat where he stubbed out the cigarette he had smoked when he was debating whether or not to audition for that band he’d heard about through a friend of a friend. 

When John finally did speak up, all he could say was, “How’s Roger?”

Brian huffed a laugh. “He’s Roger.”

“So he’s still pissed.”

John didn’t need to turn his head to know the look Brian was giving him. “He just misses you, Deaky.”

John took his thumb off the burn mark. “I know.”

“We both miss you.”

“I know,” John whispered, his voice catching on itself.

Brian placed his hand over John’s in an uncharacteristic display of affection between the two of them. “But I don’t blame you.”

John sucked in a sharp breath and nodded.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the tightness in his chest easing on his exhale.

The park was rather empty as twilight took over his little bench, wrapping them in a surprisingly pleasant silence. Truth be told, there was nothing special about the place: there was a path and some grass and and some trees and a pond. But maybe that was why John was drawn to it all those years ago. It was unassuming and quiet and he could watch the pigeons flock around the lamppost and the light play on the water and for a few moments he could just breathe.

“I have a question,” John said, breaking the silence. “Do ever wish you could… speed up the process? Get back to him sooner?”

Brian stayed quiet and for a moment John wondered if he overstepped a line. They had always been blunt with each other - lord knows they had held no punches in their prime - but it had been two decades and maybe John wasn’t afforded the privilege anymore.

“It crossed my mind a few times,” Brian finally said. “Especially in the early years after…”

Brian squeezed John’s hand. John was grateful he hadn’t let go.

“Do you?” Brian added quietly.

John scoffed. “Every day since the day he died.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Brian whip his head around and John couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t give me that look,” John said. “I would never do that to my family, you know that. It just… The fantasy makes things easier to bear.”

Brian’s eyes softened. “How?”

John had to look away then. He took his hand from underneath Brian’s and folded in on himself, leaning his arms over his knees. 

“The memories can’t hurt anymore if you just…” John let out a shaky breath, “erase them all.”

He heard Brian shift beside him. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” John admitted with a melancholy laugh, nothing more than a puff of air that disappeared into space as soon as it left his lips. “I want… Do you ever wonder? What happens in between lives?”

“What do you mean?” Brian asked.

“Do you think there’s a place where our souls go where… where we remember everything, every life?” John mumbled. He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed to share his childlike wishes or if he was scared of the answer he might receive. He took a deep breath. “Or do you think they’re gone for good?”

John felt the weight of Brian’s hand rest against his shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” Brian said. “But whatever happens, we’ll always be waiting for each other in the next.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” John said, looking up at Brian with a hopeless smile. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

Brian smiled; a real, toothy grin that John hadn’t seen in years. “You sound exactly like Roger.”

John couldn’t help but return his smile and for a moment - only a moment - he could pretend they were in their twenties again where their worst problems were their shit management and figuring out their next meal.

“You know we’re still here in this life, too,” Brian added cautiously, as if it had been on the tip of his tongue for twenty years and he finally got the words out before they went stale. “If you ever need us.”

John nodded and blinked away the hot tears forming in his eyes. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and took steadying breaths until he was confident his voice wouldn’t betray him.

“I know,” John whispered.

Brian squeezed his shoulder and stood up from the bench. John watched as he took a few paces down the path.

“Have a good night, Brimi,” John called after him quietly. A few of the tears he had kept at bay spilled onto his cheeks and he quickly wiped them away.

Brian paused before he turned back around to face him. A cold wind rushed between the few paces that separated them. Something settled - heavy and forlorn - and John had to watch his soulmate crumple under its weight. But just as quickly as it came, it went and Brian plastered the smile back on his face.

With one more wave, Brian turned and walked away. If Brian looked back, John didn’t know because he tore his gaze away after only a few moments and watched the streetlamp ripple in the pond’s reflection.

John stayed on his bench until well after dark; until the cold burrowed underneath his coat and chilled his skin, until the crickets mingled with the sounds of traffic just beyond the gates, until the moon joined in with the streetlamp in the pond.

He would never be able to escape the inevitable, that much was certain. He would lose his memories. He would lose all trace of Freddie and Roger and Brian as they were in this life.

He would lose his children and his wife and his songs. He would lose the time he and Roger accidentally broke into a stranger’s hotel room in Boston. He would lose the time Freddie had to talk him down from a panic attack in Australia. He would lose Live Aid and The Rainbow and learning about _Bohemian Rhapsody’s_ number one status in a broken down elevator. He would lose the birth of his first son and the bickering rehearsals and the shitty meals they used to share. He would lose that sunset on the rooftop with Roger and that quiet night at Ridge Farm with Brian and the last time he ever saw Freddie.

He would lose it all.

But no matter what he lost, he would never lose his soulmates.

Freddie was right, the bastard.

John tilted his head back until he found Orion, visible in even London’s light-polluted sky. Brian wasn’t the only one who looked out for that constellation, watching over them as they slogged through the long winter months. He supposed Freddie really was up there, keeping an eye on them until it was their time to hop back on the ride and do it all again.

And for the first time in thirty years, his lungs didn’t seem to crush under an invisible weight, his mind didn’t feel so bogged down and foggy. A laugh bubbled up - surprisingly light and childish for a man approaching 70 - and escaped John’s lips before he had a chance to stop it.

John closed his eyes for just a few moments before a sharp wind finally got John off his arse and out of the park; ready to go home, have dinner with his family, and cozy up with Ronnie next to a great, big, roaring fire.

On the way to his car, though, his steps slowed until he came to a stop just half a block away. He looked back over his shoulder, keys digging in his palm. His heart beat a little faster. It was stupid, really; nothing to get worked up over and yet he couldn’t help it.

After a moment, he finally swallowed his nerves and shoved his hands back in his coat pockets and doubled back to the Tesco up the road.

For he owed someone a very belated birthday card.

**Author's Note:**

> Very heavy, but I hope you enjoyed it. I don't typically ever write fics set after Freddie's death (and I don't think I will in the future), but I still very much enjoyed it. It's probably the most challenging thing I've written in a very long while and I won't lie, there were a few times when I wanted to give up and write something completely different. But I'm glad I stuck with it because in a way it was cathartic.
> 
> Anyway, if you liked it, please let me know your thoughts! I'd love to hear from you <3


End file.
